


THE STORY OF FOTHERBY AND THE FOLIO

by Grondfic



Category: Sylvester or the Wicked Uncle - Heyer
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-03-21
Updated: 2010-03-21
Packaged: 2017-10-08 04:42:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,285
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/72801
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Grondfic/pseuds/Grondfic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The story of a seedy work of fiction and its consequences.</p>
            </blockquote>





	THE STORY OF FOTHERBY AND THE FOLIO

**TITLE: THE STORY OF FOTHERBY AND THE FOLIO  
FANDOM**: Georgette Heyer novel: _Sylvester: or The Wicked Uncle_  
**PAIRING**: Sylvester(Ugolino)/Nugent Fotherby (Baron Macaronio)  
**RATING**: Obvious but not excessively so.  
**WARNINGS**: Regency slang; melodrama-language  
**DISCLAIMER**: None of mine - all down to the genius of Georgette. No money made; no offense in the world!

* * * *

**THE LOST COUNT; or UGOLINO SURPRIZ'D  
A Romance in the Italian Manner  
By  
A Gentleman**  
(Being the further amorous adventures of the Antagonist of that well-known _roman a clef_, which recently took The Town by storm - **THE LOST HEIR**)

Published by Messrs Dung and Horsweazle,  
New Back Passage, Seven Dials  
London.  
Distributed in serial form, privately by Subscription to Gentlemen of Discrimination and Singular Taste.

* * * *

**Chapter XIII: A Passage of Arms**

It was not to be wondered at that the travelling equipage of Baron Macaronio should be a Magnet that drew all eyes. The Common Herd (knowing no better) was wont to liken it to Cinderella's coach! It would indeed have seemed carved seamlessly from a single gargantuan Pumpkin; but for the sumptuous opulence of its sky-blue velvet interior.

However, the Truth lay in a singular quirk of the Baron's mercurial character; and it was this that had moved him to design the phantasmagorical equipage; reserving it solely for a _Special Purpose_!

He was partial to all forms of Dalliance; and was charmed to entertain a variety of personages, quite unbeknownst to his exquisite lady, the Divine Ianthe.

He could, however, reach his Zenith only when reclined with the current _objet du désir_ upon this very Azure Divan within the coach (embellished as it was with a variety of bolsters and swansdown cushions, each clad in the deep hue of the midnight sky and scattered with sidereal splendour in gold and silver thread).

The Baron was handed solicitously up into his favourite equipage by his Faithful Valet Doucetto, preparatory to an Amorous Assignation some leagues distant from his stronghold in the Dolomites.

His coachman, footmen and postillions (from whom the Baron assured Discretion by the simple expedient of employing only deaf-mutes) had taken him some way along the steep road; and he had lapsed into a pleasurable daydream concerning the gold-bullion tassels on his new Hessians, when he was rudely aroused by a voice from within the coach.

"Hsst!"

Nobly suppressing his involuntary squeak of alarm, Macaronio started up wildly from the cushions; to find that he was sharing the comforts of his divan with Another!

He encountered the intensity of a pair of Feline Orbs, set beneath up-slanted brows the acute angle of which recalled the flight of some soaring bird of prey. The Intruder's exquisite features did not disguise the malignity of his intent!

Wicked Count Ugolino (about whose person so many legends had accrued) had last been seen by The Ton upon the shameful gallows, from whence he had been expeditiously rescued by Person or Persons Unknown. An audacious pistol-shot had neatly severed the noose from which he dangled, ricocheted from the wood of the gallows-tree, and providentially pierced the Chief of Police through the heart.

In the resultant furore, the villainous Count had quit the scene on his favourite cover-hack which had been cunningly concealed beneath the scaffold platform; and, despite a hue-and-cry across five continents, had not been seen since.

"What the DEVIL are you doing here?" gasped the Baron, "I was about to visit the Exquisite Matilda and entice her to drive with me. Pardon my mentioning the matter, but is that a pistol in your pocket?"

"Forget the lady, Macaronio! The lovely Matilda is, after all, affianced elsewhere!" responded Ugolino, drawing the gun, "We are alone; your deaf-mutes will naturally take no heed of any cries for succour; and so we may enjoy a comfortable coze _tête a tête_!"

"Yes, well here's no need to wave your pistol around in that dangerous fashion!" responded the Baron peevishly, "I fancy you'll find Macaronio conversant with the duello in all its forms; and as game a man as ever lived! Nonetheless, a peaceful solution will always be preferable, do you not think, Count? Let us discuss the matter!"

"Convince me!" declared Ugolino with a low, sinister yet thrilling purl of laughter.

This adjuration threw the unfortunate Baron into an agony of floundering indecision. Blest more with a surfeit of Worldly Goods than a plethora of intellectual endowments, it was his wont – should any situation become a trifle _delicate_ \- to escape any promising imbroglio by offering generous _douceurs_. However Ugolino, who was (to employ a sadly _vernacular_ term) himself swimming in lard, would hardly be susceptible to such tactics.

Macaronio had but one further talent; and this was known only to his most Intimate Companions. He had, however, never been called upon to exercise it on someone who was pointing a weapon at his head. This circumstance quite robbed him of his usual _panache_; and cramped his style something rotten.

However, nothing venture nothing win; he told himself; adding also that faint heart ne'er won fair …… Personage.

Tentatively he inclined his corseted body forward and, setting aside Ugolino's pistol-hand with a gentle touch to the wrist, resolutely (yet delicately) set his lips to those of the Count.

It could not be denied, even by his worst enemies (had they but realised it) that Macaronio was accomplished in the Art of Dalliance; and that his Kisses were much sought-after in those Circles where his prowess was known and recognised. Even the Wicked Count, it appeared, seemed inclined to succumb to so polished a caress – tender and yet forceful in exact and equal measure.

"Hmmm," murmured the Count, when they disengaged, "I think, Baron, that you should forget the lovely but indubitably shallow Matilda! You will find a journey with ME to be immeasurably more satisfactory! The lady is affianced elsewhere, whereas I myself am free as a red kite to ride the air of these mountain peaks in ecstasy. Any man able to call ME to hand, unhooded and untrammelled, will surely reap a singular reward!"

Macaronio gaped at him; prey to doubt and disbelief.

"You … you mean…?"

"Indeed I do! If but you come to me clad only in the corset; and of course those magnificent Hessians – tassels a-swing …. Well; you might demand of me – Anything!"

"ANYTHING?"

Ugolino nodded, and the Baron started up.

"Permit me to attract the coachman's attention! These things go with so much more of a BOUNCE if I can but persuade him to go flat-out! The double-perch and high-slinging of the bodywork ensure a pleasing sway! Do you but LOSE that disgraceful shirt and … hmm … I see you are going sans culottes! All to the good! You will find the Attar of Pineapple in this ingenious concealed cabinet!"

The Careful Author draws a discreet veil before the next stage of the proceedings. Suffice it to report that, at conclusion, the Baron felicitously noted that Ugolino's pistol had rolled into a far corner of the divan. Hastily he possessed himself of this priceless asset.

The Count, basking in the aftermath of remembered bliss, seemed at first unaware of his loss. It was only when Macaronio commanded him (in common parlance) to stick 'em up, that he turned a languid head and smiled sleepily.

"My sweetest Baron," he purred, "You wouldn't; you really wouldn't…… **WOULD** you??"

……………………………………………………………………**To Be Continued**.

* * * *

Sir Nugent Fotherby, by no means an early riser, took the rolls and hot chocolate from Pett's hands and indicated that the Valet should place a number of letters, packages and billets (newly arrived from London by mail) on the bedside table.

Having broken his fast, he turned to these; noting with pleasure the plain packet addressed to him in a somewhat Commonplace hand, but bearing the imprint of Messrs Dung and Horsweazle (Printers) of Seven Dials.

He reached for it eagerly. The somewhat correct and _crested_ atmosphere that prevailed here at Chance would undoubtedly be improved by a swift perusal of its contents!

Sir Nugent was, as it transpired, wrong. He laid down the slim folio with a clouded brow and rang the bell somewhat violently. Upon Pett's precipitate appearance, he was informed curtly that his master would rise forthwith!

A bare hour later, Fotherby, happening to glance through his window preparatory to descending, found his perturbation increased by the sight of the Head of the House of Rayne pelting across the wide lawn in the company of Mr Thomas Orde and that devil's changeling Master Edmund Rayne; all three shouting like schoolboys.

They had clearly been for an early morning swim in one of the larger ponds on the edge of the Wilderness. Fotherby's mind was thus further disordered by the fact that Sylvester's shirt was damp and clinging to his shapely form in a manner that left very little to the imagination.

By the time he had regained a modicum of countenance; and swallowed the veriest morsel of shaven ham on wheat-bread washed down with strong coffee, he felt more equal to the unpleasant task before him.

Enquiring for the Duke of Salford, he learned from Reeth that His Grace had retired to his Library to conclude some trifling items of business. To a Person of Less Consequence, these tidings would have given pause; but Fotherby, everywhere sure of his welcome, strode to the Library door, and entered hard upon his knock.

* * * *

"What is it, Fotherby?" asked Sylvester curtly, "I'm rather busy this morning!"

"Rather a delicate matter, Duke! Thought it best to come straight to you!"

"If you've quarrelled with Ianthe, Fotherby, there's nothing I can do about it!"

"No, nothing like that, Duke!" Sir Nugent hastened to reply, "Fact is, I'm in a bit of a quandary. Not sure how to proceed, don't y' know. Here – " he proffered the offending folio, "You conversant with THIS, Duke?"

Sylvester took and gave it a cursory glance.

"Oh! That! What of it?"

"Well, I hardly like to …. This Macaronio …. Ianthe says it's meant for me! A pen-portrait, she calls it!"

Sylvester achieved a magnificent curl of the lip, worthy of Ugolino himself.

"Never tell me you regale your wife with stuff like this, Fotherby?"

"No, no!" Sir Nugent hastened to reassure him, "Thing is though, not at all the thing to be appearing in such a work as this. Well – you should know ……"

"**I**? Why should I know particularly?"

"Well, upon my word!" spluttered Fotherby,"If this Ugolino ain't meant for you, well .. you may take Nugent Fotherby and boil him up for supper! Besides – know it was you! Ianthe wouldn't have kicked up all that dashed dust if it wasn't. Stands to reason!"

"You may recall, Fotherby that when my wife produced the second volume of _The Lost Heir_, she made it clear in her dedication that Ugolino was entirely her own creation. Furthermore, the villainous Count was executed at the end of that novel. THIS .. well I hardly know with what word to dignify such scribbles – is produced privately; and makes use of her characters."

"Well then – ain't that grounds for prosecution?"

"It may or may not be, Fotherby. However, it would scarcely be proper for my wife to appear in such a matter; nor I on her behalf. So, since we do not choose to acknowledge this .. this … tome, I don't think that you would be wise to do so either!"

"But dammit, Duke! Have you SEEN what I .. we … THEY …. got up to, in this chapter?"

"I have not yet had that pleasure."

"Well …. WELL! Never say Nugent Fotherby can't admit it when he's bewattled! So your advice is to ignore ….."

"Decidedly! Forget all about it, Nugent! Tell you what – the ladies are mad for a pic-nic this afternoon. What say you and I take the opportunity for a quiet game or two of billiards, or if you prefer, a tour of the stables and a comfortable coze about horseflesh?"

"Well I call that handsome, Duke! Billiards ain't quite the thing; but your renowned stables – I'd be honoured, Duke, honoured! I must hasten and appraise Ianthe of your unparalleled condescension! _A Bientot_, Salford!"

Left alone at his desk, the Duke laughed softly; the purr of a contented cat.

Amongst the many benefits of life married to Pheobe was the discovery, during what was essentially a joint-authorship venture with _The Lost Heir Part II_, that he himself was no mean exponent of barbed satire.

Further he owed to his Sparrow the priceless gift of Funning. If once one was able to see disagreeable and irritating people as absurd; if one could place them in ridiculous and scandalous situations; then tolerating them in real life became so much easier!

Take Fotherby for example! His unfailing good humour was surely a virtue which more than compensated for his many follies. The man possessed a trim figure too! If he would only give up that redundant corset, he would really appear much more the thing!

Sylvester drew his copy of Messrs. Dung and Horsweazle's latest episode from the desk drawer. It had turned out pretty well; especially with the addition of those woodcuts. He must enquire after the artist's name!

Dipping his pen into the inkwell, he drew a clean white sheet of paper towards him. The heading was done with his usual flourish:

**Chapter XiV: Life becomes Complicated for Macaronio**

~~With one bound, Ugolino was free~~.

By the simple expedient of suggesting to the accommodating but gullible Baron that there might be some benefit in attracting the attention of one of the postillions whilst still holding Ugolino at gunpoint, the Count contrived – whilst Macaronio tried vainly to attract his servants' attention – to slip nimbly from the coach, his tattered shirt and disgraceful breeches clutched in one hand and his shoes in the other ……


End file.
